The Company She Keeps

by Georgia Durante

  Obviously no great love existed between them. An unspoken rivalry always simmered between the east siders and the west siders. I chalked it up to that being the case here. As I pondered this conflict, the waitress appeared with a tray filled with drinks.

  “These are on Joe Lamendola,” she said, unloading her bounty.

  “Bring me my tab on your next pass, Bea,” Sammy ordered.

  “Coming right up, Sammy.”

  “We’re going to Ben’s Café from here, Georgia. Would you like to join us?”

  “Sure, why not?” I answered, noticing hostile glances from the two girls at the table.

  Bea returned with the check and Sammy paid it, leaving her a $100 tip. “Give these ladies whatever they want and put it on my tab,” Sammy instructed as we stood to leave.

  I was surprised the girls weren’t joining us, but evidently not as surprised as they were. Their venomous stares undoubtedly followed us even after we passed through the door.

  “Why aren’t they coming with us?” I asked as we climbed the flight of cement stairs leading out of the club.

  “Why bring a ham sandwich to a smorgasbord?” Sammy answered, and we all burst out laughing.

  Two days later I received a call from Joe Lamendola. “Hey, pretty lady. Where’d you run off to the other night?”

  “Oh, we just did the Friday-night ritual. The Blue Gardenia, Ben’s, and breakfast.”

  “Listen, I have to go to Buffalo Wednesday night to see a group I’m thinking of booking. Would you like to come with me? I’d really like your opinion.”

  “Well . . . are you planning on returning the same night?”

  “No, but you’ll have your own room, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “In that case, I’d love to go.”

  He picked me up in his 1970 Stingray—my kind of car. We dropped Toni off at my mother’s and drove the ninety miles to Buffalo, learning a little history about each other along the way.

  “You know,” I said, “your brother Ronny is a friend of mine.”

  “I know; how do you think I got your number?”

  “Oh . . . well, I assumed you got it from Sammy.”

  “I tried that route, but he basically told me you were unlisted.”

  “He’s overprotective of me sometimes.”

  “That’s an understatement.”

  “I didn’t know Ronny even had an older brother,” I said. “Why haven’t I ever met you before?”

  “I’ve been in Boston for the last six years. I’m sort of the black sheep of the family. The one no one ever talks about,” he said with a nervous laugh. “How do you know my brother?”

  “I used to date a friend of his, Sammy Sapienza. I was about fourteen or fifteen at the time. Ronny was the bouncer at a club Sammy took me to. He got me past the door without having to show my ID. We just became friends over time.”

  We arrived at the Executive Hotel about six thirty. Jimmy Constintino had the red carpet rolled out upon our arrival. Champagne was in Joe’s suite and flowers were in mine. The note he left read: Relax and enjoy. The limo will pick you up at seven thirty for dinner. Looking forward to seeing you.

  I had heard about this powerhouse, Jimmy Constintino. He was a young, good-looking guy, the owner of one of the largest hotels in Buffalo. I had to admit I was curious about him, and he seemed interesting. But like so many of Joe’s praiseworthy acquaintances, I would meet him once, never to encounter him again.

  Joe and I had a wonderful dinner at a quaint Italian restaurant, compliments of Jimmy. Songs from Italy, played on a harp, added charm to the atmosphere and set the stage for a romantic evening. After dinner the limousine took us back to the hotel. We went into the lounge to hear the new group. Joe asked the female singer if she knew the song “What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life.” She did. We danced like we’d been together for years.

  “You are going to marry me, y’know,” he said as we danced.

  “I’m already married.”

  “We’ll just have to do something about that, won’t we?”

  “I’m only six days into a separation, and I’m not ready to jump into the fire quite yet. Besides, it’s bad enough being married, having a child, and getting a divorce all before I’m twenty,” I said, laughing.

  “How old is your baby?”

  “Eight months,” I answered.

  “We’ll be married by the time she’s three. Is that long enough?”

  He held me close for the remainder of the song. I felt that tingle in my vulnerable young heart—the kind of feeling that seems to happen only in youth, the first stage of falling in love.

  The evening was wonderful, but as we walked from the lounge toward our rooms, apprehension surged through me—the dread of the sexual advances that were sure to come. I knew Joe wouldn’t be satisfied with a simple kiss at the door. I was determined to handle the situation as an adult, but how? How did a young girl handle a dilemma like this without adult experience?

  Being married young had furnished me with a cloak of safety. Now I was single again and fair game. Conventional myth said divorcées, having had a steady diet of sex, were easy marks. Except I was maybe as difficult as they came. Being married and having a child didn’t automatically make me an adult. I still had a month to go before I turned twenty. My instincts said run. I never did perfect the handling of sexual encounters. Even today, though I no longer physically break track records, I still hold the gold medal in my head for running the fastest.

  I worked myself into a frenzy thinking about it. Sensing my extreme discomfort, Joe acted like a perfect gentleman. He was probably intrigued that a woman wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date—a problem I was sure he had not encountered often.

  Frankie came to Rochester a few times after the breakup with Tom, and I saw him when I traveled to New York on my little side jobs. On one of his visits, I packed a lunch and we went on a picnic with Toni. Frankie had a wonderful way with children. He would have been a good father.

  Somehow we wound up in the cemetery—not really so unusual for our peculiar relationship. Sitting under a willow tree, we ate our lunch and watched as Toni climbed on the tombstones. We wrote a letter together, professing our love for each other, wrapped it in the plastic from our sandwiches, and buried it under the tree. We made a promise we would come back in twenty years to read it again. We knew that, barring death, we would always be in contact. I actually did go back twenty years later, but with the natural growth of the trees I couldn’t remember which one the letter was buried beneath.

  We still harbored strong feelings, but life was a little different now. Having a baby changd everything. Life in New York was harsh enough for an adult; with a child it was out of the question. New York City and my life there with Frankie became only fond memories.

  Joe and I were soon an item. Just as he predicted, we ultimately were married. As unhappy as I was with Tom, I was still scared and insecure about what the future held for a young woman with a year-old infant. Intuitively understanding my fears, Joe used this apprehension as a vehicle to lure me in, making my daughter as big a part of his life as he made me. Never having any children of his own, Joe seemed to enjoy the little pleasures kids can bring into one’s life. He had little trouble converting from his bachelor lifestyle to instant family man.

  Caught off guard by love, I was grateful I’d found someone who loved my daughter and was willing to take us both as a package. Determined to be the only father Toni would ever know, Joe wanted Tom out of her life. For some reason, Tom really wasn’t a major problem. I’m sure Joe’s reputation had something to do with it, but Tom was as lax about Toni as he was about himself. Toni, just being a baby, didn’t know the difference. She enjoyed the attention from wherever it came.

  The beginning of our relationship was a whirlwind of excitement. But then again, any kind of social life, much less life in the fast lane, would have been exciting compared to living with Tom. Joe was a flashy nightclub owne
r and always dressed the part. Drawn by his thousand-watt charm and good looks, women threw themselves at his feet—which, of course, made men secretly hate him. But he had chosen me, and I felt proud to be his woman.

  Joe knew how to spend money, and doors opened wherever we went. Maître d’s greeted him as though he were a king. Only the best table in the house was good enough for Mr. Joe. When he walked into a room, people were immediately intimidated by his presence. He carried an undeniable aura of power. I fell madly in love, dazzled by the illusion of Joe Lamendola.

  We connected beyond anything we could relate to on an earthly plain. Our strong desire for each other felt as if it were a continuation from another lifetime. We didn’t need to speak to understand each other’s thoughts. We were happy together and utterly miserable when apart.

  Once we were separated by a snowstorm. I was stuck in a photography studio only seven miles from home, but the streets were impassable. The night on a cold studio floor promised to be long. But Joe wouldn’t give up. He searched until he found a kid with a snowmobile and paid him $100 to bring me home. When I got there, he had a candlelight dinner and wine waiting. We spent a warm, snowed-in, romantic evening together.

  Joe took me out frequently, even on Fridays, which had always been deemed “boys” night out. On Saturdays, everyone took out their wives, but Fridays were reserved for girlfriends. We truly enjoyed each other’s company, always finding something to giggle about. This was what I had missed when I was married to Tom.

  We took many short trips to Toronto and New York, usually in search of good bands to book for the nightclub. In anticipation of our arrival, other club owners made sure we were treated like royalty. We were an envied couple by the women who vied for Joe’s attention. I had captured the heart of one of the most desirable bachelors in town, and he had captured me.

  Once I was under his spell, and hopelessly in love, Joe’s jealousy began to intensify. He wanted to shield me from any external influences. I became his property. Men couldn’t even look in my direction without a violent reaction from Joe. I started to change my own personality, careful not to attract attention from the opposite sex, but it didn’t work. To eliminate the problem, Joe started to make me stay at home. At my age, with the world to explore, his restricting conduct was like a death sentence.

  Life with Joe soon became twisted. He began to dominate and control me. Over time, in subtle ways, the frequency of his dominant behavior became more pronounced. At first his caring seemed genuine, guiding me in ways that appeared to be in my best interest. Eventually, though, he made all my decisions, and my independence completely crumbled. I wasn’t allowed to associate with my friends—for my own good, of course—and eventually I even had restrictions on my own family. He forbade me to have contact with anyone who might open my eyes to the destruction of his domination. My opinions had no value. His opinions were law.

  When my mother sensed what was happening, she offered me refuge. Refuge didn’t mean safety, however, so I camouflaged my unhappiness. The more aware Joe became of my parents’ feelings, the less contact I was allowed to have with them. I tried my best to balance it all with harmony, but resentment grew on both sides.

  We lived in an apartment above Caesars II. There wasn’t anyplace where Toni could go out to play—no trees, no park, just pavement. I started to feel as if I had traded one prison, my marriage to Tom, for another. And from the new one there seemed no escape.

  I loved Joe, or so I thought. His flashy club-owner status and the attention from other women made him seem quite a catch. As a result, I put up with his behavior. In Joe’s world, women did what they were told. He knew that my sense of self was shaky, despite my successful modeling career. His put-downs became vicious and cruel. I began to believe that I was lucky to have found him. Who else would want me, especially with a child? I actually began to participate in my own subjugation.

  Because of Joe, my modeling assignments became limited to the Rochester area. Even nearby Buffalo was considered too far out of town. I could work at a distant location only if he traveled with me. Having Joe on the set, not surprisingly, was propelling me into early retirement.

  Joe never said much—he didn’t have to. His expressions said it all. His presence made everyone extremely uncomfortable, including me. My side trips to New York were impossible now, but at least I had a good excuse to turn down the frequent requests for my services.

  Industry parties often demanded my presence, but I could never go to these affairs alone. If Joe didn’t accompany me, then I’d have to stay home. I recall one party we attended and, as usual, he made me a nervous wreck. It was obvious to my colleagues that Joe was from a different world, and my business friends caught the change in my personality with him around. I could feel that my conversations were impaired and strained. I knew what the evening would hold even before we arrived, as Joe always became irritated whenever I enjoyed the spotlight. I hoped against hope that he’d conduct himself with dignity and show respect.

  A male model, Jim Alquist, approached us at the party. “Hi, Georgia. Great party, huh?” he remarked, innocently resting one hand on my shoulder while sipping his drink with the other.

  “Yes, the studio doesn’t look quite the same with all these people in it. Jim, this is Joe.”

  “Good to meet you, Joe,” Jim said, holding out his hand.

  “You touch my wife like that again, you’ll be missing a hand,” Joe retorted.

  Jim stood, stupefied, with his arm still outstretched.

  Here he goes. Let’s leave now, White. It’s only gonna get worse.

  Joe took my arm and abruptly led me through the crowd. He was seething.

  “Joe, please don’t embarrass me,” I pleaded, forcing a nervous smile at familiar faces as we passed.

  “Embarrass you? Quite the opposite, my dear. How can you allow yourself to be touched like that and expect me to stand there like a fuckin’ idiot?”

  “Jim was just being friendly; he didn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yeah, I know how friendly he’d like to be.”

  “You’re ridiculous, Joe. That’s his wife right over there. Look at her. She’s gorgeous! What would he want with me? We all work together—we’re friends!”

  “Not anymore you’re not. Get your coat. We’re leaving.”

  “I can’t leave yet. They haven’t started the slide show. I’m being featured—it’s why we’re here!”

  “Get your coat.”

  You may as well leave. People are beginning to stare. Next time, pretend you’re visiting your mother—and go alone!

  I said whatever it took to appease Joe, while never agreeing with the way he thought. When, against my better judgment, I occasionally attempted to demonstrate that I had a mind of my own, he became infuriated. The result was never worth my effort.

  I learned very quickly how to sneak. I took jobs out of town and drove ninety miles an hour to get back home at a reasonable time. I even had Toni lying for me: “Tell Daddy we stopped for an ice cream. Don’t say we visited with Susie. If he asks, say we were at Grandma’s.” Only now do I realize how sick it was, putting that type of pressure on a child. But then I was so terrified, I’d do anything to escape his wrath. I still find it difficult to think about the normal life I deprived my daughter of because of my own chaos.

  Toni practically lived with my parents. They were wonderful, loving grandparents, but they weren’t what she needed the most. She needed me. My parents took care of her when I worked and when I played, both of which I did a lot. I wanted to taste the life of my youth that early motherhood had stolen from me. Mom and Dad lovingly afforded me that opportunity.

  Other reasons surfaced for my frequent absences from Toni’s life. As time went on, Joe graduated from emotionally destroying things that were precious to me to punching holes in walls—and, finally, to physically abusing me. He never laid a hand on Toni, but the mental abuse she endured during his outbursts took a significant toll on her psych
e.

  When Joe became physically abusive, which happened often, I’d take Toni to stay with my mother. I desperately attempted to avoid her being subjected to Joe’s violent behavior. I would lie to my parents, but they suspected something was wrong. They eagerly opened their door and sheltered my little girl. Although Toni missed me, she was happier and more relaxed in the safety of my parents’ loving home. Absorbed in my own pain, my mind was scarcely free to mourn her absence. I took comfort in knowing she was receiving the love and attention she needed.

  Toni played as quietly as a mouse around Joe. She never knew quite what to expect from him. She gradually became timid and withdrawn, fading into the background whenever he raised his voice.

  One day Joe and Toni were playing in the kitchen while I was preparing breakfast. Toni climbed onto the counter and jumped into his arms. Delighted with the attention, she actively pursued the game. I placed the pan on the stove and turned to survey them, enjoying their laughter. Toni repeatedly climbed back up and jumped. On her sixth jump, Joe moved away, letting her fall to the floor.

  “There—that’ll teach you never to trust anybody.”

  I ran to her and picked her up, wiping the tears from her eyes. “That was sick, Joe! How could you do that to her?”

  “Don’t challenge me on how to bring up a kid! Maybe if someone did that to you when you were younger, you’d never have gotten raped. She’s not going to grow up to be as stupid as her mother.”

  You’re not stupid! He’s trying to confuse you by turning it all around—so he looks right. He’s wrong! Don’t give in; you have nothing to apologize for.

  Joe’s dominant behavior persisted. I loved him and hated him in equal measure. My will became the only thing that sustained me. My reluctance to let go of what belief I still had in myself just increased his insecurity. His lack of self-control became more overt. The blame always flowed in my direction, and, after a time, I came to accept it. Through it all, I persistently and paradoxically believed I loved him.

  In the beginning, I saw the possessive side of Joe as proof of his love. But time showed it to be a sickness. The signs were there from the start, but love has a celebrated myopia. Yes, Joe was certainly suave. Although I had been around enough to know the kind of character he was, I was still just a babe in the woods, young and impressionable. Joe was thirty-five when we met—and a master of mind manipulation. The fifteen years of experience he had on me made his molding me into the person I would become that much easier. Joe was tall, dark, and handsome, but the dark was much darker than I had bargained for. Once I entered that darkness, escape would take years.